The Nerd’s Wife In A Lingerie

Everything is F.cked . The story about Hope. 7

<Honey, I’m home!> The sweet and persuasive echo of a woman’s voice passes through the rooms of a modest town house. It is late at night, outside the windows you can hardly guess the outline of the neighbouring houses, illuminated by the gas lamps.

<My love!> A distant voice answers her, muffled. <Where are you?> The woman puts down her purse and begins to remove the pins from her long brown hair, which fall over her chest in a cascade of curls. She smiles in the mirror as she opens her shirt, but only a few buttons: she can’t go any further, even if she wanted to. A magnificent leather corset tightens her bust, tied by belts with a golden buckle. With a voluptuous gesture she tears the brown skirt along the row of golden buttons that close it on the side, revealing a large slit that goes up from the leather boot to the knee, passes through the holster – which with a few gestures she takes off, making it fall back on the dresser – and finally reaches the top of a long white thigh, to which the buckle of the garter is fastened. Time to go hunting.

She does not need to search, she knows perfectly well where her husband is: holed up in his laboratory, probably closed on the metal automaton of a bird or on some other small steam engine on which he has wasted all day. Adorable!

She makes her way through the paperwork and the pieces of metal in total silence, caressing the dark shape of the scientist bent with his tiny instruments over some pieces of metal, illuminated by the flickering and uncertain light of a gas lamp. She reaches out, running her slender fingers through his thick dark hair, he bows his head; It’s unusual, usually, when he’s focused she might even samba in front of him and he won’t move a muscle. She knows that he is listening to her, that he is waiting for her.

With a few precise gestures, she takes off her long boots, letting them fall noisily at his feet, then rotates his chair towards her, blocking him with his back to the worktable. His one healthy eye shines with excitement, reflects the golden light of the lamps, delicate gold specks in a chestnut-coloured sea … She feels his hands running on the corset, undoing the buckles and opening it on the modest view of her shirt still almost completely fastened, while she is lost in admiring him: his hair shot in the air by some explosion in the morning – she still smells the gunpowder on his clothes – the bionic eye screwed to his ebony skin, whose bronze installation almost covers half of his face, his hydraulic arms stretching the frayed fabric of his jacket over his elbows as she tries to strip him of it to keep him in his shirt sleeves. Her skirt slides down along her hips, showing the black lace garter to which the stockings are tied, and the black lace hem of the lingerie just above.

The woman reaches out and turns off the gas light.

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